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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26520196">You Can Have Me</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavender_euro505/pseuds/lavender_euro505'>lavender_euro505</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dunkirk (2017)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - College/University, Foreign Language, Français | French, M/M, Swearing</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 04:15:50</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>936</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26520196</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavender_euro505/pseuds/lavender_euro505</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A modern dunkirk au where Tommy is late to private lessons with his new French tutor, Philippe.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Gibson/Tommy (Dunkirk)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>You Can Have Me</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This was meant to be a proper story but this is what I've got in the meanwhile.</p><p>Let me know if you guys like the story or want more modern dunkirk from me (or some other plotline lol)! 🤠</p><p>PS: They are at Newcastle University (in England).</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Tommy’s already late. </p><p><em>Shit</em>, he thinks, bursting through the wooden side doors of the Old Library building. He bumps into a couple of unassuming Freshers that give him dirty looks. Offering a quick apology, he rushes down the hall toward the Modern Languages Corridor. </p><p>His Adidas trainers slap against the floors as he nearly misses the entrance in his haste. A couple of girls wearing pastel lace dresses, the tips of their white blond hair dyed a bright pink, meet him at the door. Tommy shuffles past them, swerving to miss their bulky backpacks full of books, as they swipe their uni card to leave. He's almost past the barrier, but a boy who looks like he has some authority quickly makes him turn around, motioning with his hand. He’s wearing a name badge and his hair is spiked in the front and the back. Tommy notices his cardigan is pushed up to reveal a rainbow bracelet on his wrist. He must be the new library aide.</p><p>“Have you got your uni card then?” The boy asks in an accusatory voice, eyebrow raised. Tommy honestly forgets it every time, but he’s late today and the last thing he wants is his private french tutor, Philippe, tutting at him. Tommy rolls his eyes, annoyed. The university really didn’t need to track his every movement within the Modern Languages Corridor, did they? So what if he’d booked four sessions back to back with the very in-demand, <em>Philippe Guillet.</em> He’d just claim he was a Francophile or a high achiever wanting a decent mark, nothing more. </p><p>Tommy begrudgingly digs through his wallet for the uni card, (thankfully) finds it, swipes it, and makes a show of hurrying past the library aide toward his usual tutoring room. </p><p>The door was slightly cracked, so at least Philippe was still waiting for him. That was a good sign. It was already ten minutes past the time they were supposed to meet and Tommy hoped that he’d not just called it a day. </p><p>He bursts into the room, backpack swinging harshly on his shoulders, as a tall, middle aged woman spins around from the front of the room. Twelve pairs of eyes are on him as his own travels up to the whiteboard the woman is writing on: <em>“Philosophie der Freiheit”</em>. </p><p>That was <em>definitely</em> not Philippe, and <em>definitely</em> not French.</p><p>The woman beams and says with a slight accent, “<em>Deutsch?</em>” Tommy shakes his head, his bangs skimming his eyes.</p><p>“No, er. Sorry!” He bangs the door closed, then cringes at the sound as he slowly backs away. From the corner of his eye he can see the library aide eyeing him, as if he makes one more false move, he’d be banished. </p><p>
  <em>Where the hell was Philippe?</em>
</p><p>It was times like these that Tommy wished he’d just asked Philippe for his number last week when he spontaneously saw him at quiz night. They were both mildly tipsy on beer and pub chips and the atmosphere was good. If only the bird he’d been with hadn’t been so adamant that they leave, he might have had the courage. </p><p>“Eh, Tommy?” Tommy whips around so hard, his heavy backpack nearly sends him to the ground. Philippe immediately catches him by the arms, meeting Tommy’s hazel eyes with an easy grin. </p><p>“Oh, <em>salut!</em>” Philippe’s grin widens. </p><p>“<em>Salut</em>, Tommy. You're late, today. Very unlike you.” Philippe tuts at him, and god <em>dammit</em> if that wasn't the sexiest thing ever. </p><p>Tommy can hardly hide the flush on his cheeks as he follows Philippe to an empty room a door down from the German lesson.</p><p>“Er, went to the wrong room by accident.” A hand at his neck, he shuffles inside the room, closing the door with his back against it. </p><p>Philippe turns to him and shrugs. “Ah, yes… the Germans have taken our usual place, no?” </p><p>Tommy grabs a chair and puts his bag under the table, chuckling to himself. Philippe raises an eyebrow at him.</p><p>“Heh, just feels like there’s a joke there, innit.” Philippe gives him a polite smile before silently turning back to the notebook at the table in front of him. Maybe the joke was lost in translation, Tommy thinks. </p><p>He’s getting out his French notes and textbook from class when he notices the way Philippe leans against the table in such a languid way, his body very nearly draped over the hardwood, save for the chair behind him, Tommy could push him onto it and straddle his lap and the uptight library aide would be none the wiser. There weren’t any cameras and it was a partially soundproof wall. No one would be able to hear Philippe cry out—</p><p>“Tommy!” <em>God, yes, a bit like that…</em></p><p>But now Philippe is saying it again and it sounds more like a question than anything else, as he looks at Tommy with a quizzical look. </p><p>
  <em>Shit, what'd he say?</em>
</p><p>“Er, sorry?” Philippe smiles, used to Tommy drifting off in a daze, apparently. </p><p>“Maybe I should take your number this time? In case, we are again occupied?” Tommy catches the mischievous glint in his eye and he’s not sure what that’s about. </p><p>“My number?” Tommy asks, dumbly. Philippe nods, pulling out his cellphone. </p><p>“Or, I give you mine?” He raises an eyebrow, the end of his mouth upturning in a grin again. Tommy bites his lip. Philippe watches his mouth.</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>
  <em>“Oui?”</em>
</p><p>“Yeah, you can have me.” </p><p><em>Fuck, what?</em> </p><p>“Sorry, no! I meant, <em>mine!</em> You can have mine...<em>my number</em>.”</p><p>Philippe’s grin widens, but Tommy's too busy freaking out to notice.</p><p><em>“On fait ce que tu veux…”</em> </p>
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